The Rest is Silence
by KayleighBough
Summary: It's been a long time. He can hear it in their voices, when they talk. They don't expect him to wake.


_AN- This was a Christmas Present for a friend, even though it's not entirely uplifting. _

Disclaimer: None of the poetry belongs to me. Extracts from: Robert Frost's _The Road not Taken_, TS Eliots' _Rhapsody on a Windy Night_, Lord Byron's _Darkness.  
_

* * *

…

"Well, Timothy."

…

"From what they told me, I expected you to look… well, much worse, if you want the truth."

…

"I'm sorry. I'm finding this… harder than I thought."

…

"You would expect it to be easier to talk to the living, wouldn't you? Unfortunately, that hasn't been the case. As time goes on, you find it harder to understand people, when you see their handywork. When I was younger it used to dishearten me. I thought somehow, it would explain those things I never understood. This…"

…

"This is beyond my comprehension."

…

"Ducky."

"Yes?"

"The doctors need to do their thing."

"Of course."

…

"Aren't you…?"

"Later."

"Jethro… I don't think there will be a later."

"There will be."

* * *

"TBI?"

"Among other things."

"Looks like he's been hit by a truck. CT scan?"

"Yep. MRI too. Neither of them are pretty. Here."

"Ouch."

"Ouch is short changing it. Pretty sure the spleen's torn, right lungs punctured—"

"I'll make those my priority. Set the leg?"

"Yes, but only that. We need to get him stable. You'll have enough to worry about with the pelvis."

"Who was it that said he was lucky to be alive?"

"Paramedic. It's his third week."

"Yeah, well give him a slap from me."

"Will do. Good luck."

* * *

…

"McGee?"

…

"…Tim?"

…

"Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, okay?..."

…

"Come on, Tim."

…

…

…

"Abby—"

"What?"

"It's Tony. He's starting to wake up."

"Is he?…"

"Looks like he'll be fine. Is there any change?"

"No. Still sleeping."

"It's good, Abby. He'll heal faster."

"I know, Ducky."

…

"Why did this happen?"

"...I don't know."

"Of all the people who could've…why did it have to be them?"

"I don't know."

…

…

"I'll be back, McGee. I promise. You go anywhere, I don't care what it takes, I'll knock myself unconscious and I'm gonna come find you, Timothy McGee. So don't even think about it."

…

…

"You know she doesn't threaten lightly, my boy. I'd listen to her, if I were you."

…

* * *

…

_What?..._

…

* * *

…

"Anthony, you just need to talk to him."

"What's the point? His brain's a marshmallow. No, marshmallows at least have cohesive form. More like tapioca, maybe. Tapioca brain. And don't give me that look Ducky, because he's in a coma. I'm pretty sure he can't get offended."

"Just remember what I said."

…

"Like I could forget. Duckman's got making a speech down to a fine art, don't he Probie?"

…

"As I said. Brain like tapioca."

…

"Huh. Why does your room get a TV? Mine doesn't even have a radio. If this was a hotel I'd be wanting a refund. Shrapnel boy gets the room with halitosis lady, coma guy gets the quiet room with the TV."

…

"What do you want to watch? _Dexter's laboratory_?"

…

"Since you can't watch it anyway, I'm over-ruling you."

…

"_Kazaam_? Oh jeez. Be thankful you're unconscious. Seriously, basketballers should not be in movies. With the exception of _Space Jam_. And even then, only for the Looney Tunes."

…

…

…

"'_No bone_', huh? I could've told them that."

…

"I don't know what I'm implying. I know, pretty low on the insult scale. Sorry, I've been off my game. Getting shrapnel picked out of your skull will do that to you."

…

"You're right. Suppose not as much as a cast iron door to the face. Or getting crushed. Or being burned. You and Ziva should have used your bad luck up in instalments like I did, you'd be in a much better state now."

…

"If it's any consolation, you look better than her. Only just, though."

…

"McGee."

…

"Probie!"

…

"Nothing."

…

"You're gonna have to wake up soon, you know. Gibbs is getting pissed. He's gonna start slapping you upside the head soon."

…

"Tim."

…

"Actually, when you wake up, I'm gonna hit you first. I'm pretty sure I told you to stay with the car. Yet here you are."

…

"What were you doing there, Probie?"

* * *

_He can hear screaming, and the crackle of skin._

_He smells burning.  
_

* * *

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Odd feeling.

* * *

"Facial reconstruction will be quite simple, relatively speaking. The bone broke in one piece across the orbital and jawline. We can wire it back once the swelling has gone down."

"What about his other… injuries?"

"We remain hopeful. His pelvis and femur are starting to heal, and the burns are looking fine. Our real problem is his cerebral edema."

"Will he be the same?"

"It's hard to tell. He probably won't wake up for a while, but once the swelling subsides we would like your permission to place him in a medically induced coma for another week after. It will give his ribs some time to heal, and allow us to repair his skull. After that…"

"Thank you, Doctor Carter."

"There is a chance he may survive this."

"But not a good one."

"Sarah…"

"It's fine. Unfortunately, you're right. Considering the trauma he sustained, it is less likely than more that Timothy will live. That fact he has survived as long as he has is something to be thankful for."

"Thankful…?"

"Doctor Carter?'

"Excuse me…"

Footsteps.

Feeling, along his fingers.

Tim is sure his sister is looking at him, and is finding the doctor's idea of thankful wanting.

* * *

_Awareness._

_Barely. He knows he is here. Beyond that…_

_The rest is a void, dark edges falling down into the nothing. _

_It's almost too much to bear. He is smoke, stuck together by sheer luck._

_A far off change. Something in the air. He fragments away, lost.  
_

* * *

…

"He looks a bit like a number nine billiard ball."

"Tony."

"Still, looks better than Ziva. She looks like an alien."

"Tony, what's the matter with you?"

"What do you want me to do? You want me to make Ziva's father actually come see her before she dies? Want me to reach in and pop out McGee's skull? Yeah, that would be a neat trick."

_Stop it. _

The thought surfaces before he is even aware that he is listening.

"While I'm at it, maybe I'll just go back in time and not find the safe, and then we wouldn't even be here! Do you want me to do that?"

_Stop, stop._

He tries to move his hands. Nothing.

He can't even feel his hands.

There is a scrape, the scuff of feet. He hears her fighting sobs.

There is silence, and Tony doesn't say a word.

* * *

_He's running. _

_Walls flash past. Doors, doors, doors._

_The lights are dim, and his phone doesn't work._

_Somewhere, a little box of fire is waiting to be opened.  
_

* * *

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

* * *

_He is drifting less. More oscillation between here and not here. He thinks he is aware more often than he is not._

Cogito ergo sum.

_That'll do, for now._

_Sometimes, when he oscillates on his pendulum of consciousness, he finds something haunting him. It's like a shadow, and idea maybe. He can't remember what it is._

_But it always returns, and reminds him somehow of the feeling of being underground.  
_

* * *

"Hey, Tim."

…

"Dr Mallard said we should talk or read to you, that it might help. Dad and Mom don't… I don't know. They visit you a lot, though. They're staying at your place, so I hope you didn't leave anything incriminating lying around."

…

"I know you hate John Donne, so I was going to read you one of his. That way you might wake up sooner and tell me to stop it. But then I found your old book, so I guess you'll probably like one of these better."

…

"Just remember. Every second you stay unconscious, I get to go through your stuff. Okay?"

…

Quiet. It stirs his awareness slightly.

_Sarah?_

He hears her swallowing hard. It makes him ache.

"Okay. Here's one. Hope you like it."

_I had a dream, which was not all a dream._

_The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars_

_did wander darkling in the eternal space…  
_

* * *

_Lots of time to think._

_He is hurt. Bad._

_Ribs. Probably burns, they talk about changing dressings a lot. Skull fracture; they've taken a bit out. Fractured pelvis._

_Tony is hurt too. And Ziva._

_And there is another fact, too._

_He shouldn't have been there. _

_Lots of time to worry, and to be alone. Though both feelings are vague and don't last for long._

_He's surrounded by shadows.  
_

* * *

"His hair is growing back."

"Yeah. He looks less like a…" He hears her swallow. "A billiard ball."

"His liver's looking a bit better. The jaundice should go away soon."

Feeling. Barely there. A hand brushing his temple. He thinks she's left flowers, he can smell something sweet. Or tea, maybe?

"Just when he grows it back, they're going to shave it off again. He's gonna be annoyed, when he wakes up."

"Doctor Mallard…?"

"I'll be back in a minute, Abby."

"Sure."

…

"McGee."

…

"McGee?"

…

"Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

He hears. He tries. He sends the thought out into the space around him, but it falters in the dark and is lost.

_Sorry._

"It's okay. I was reading up about comas, and sometimes the person can still hear you. I think you can hear me. You look like you're deep in thought. You're gonna get wrinkles like Gibbs, if you aren't careful."

He can feel her hand in his. Her grip is firm, keeps him anchored. He wants to tell her thank you, somehow. There must be a way.

Wants to ask her why he's here.

"Abby, Tony's out of surgery. He's in Recovery."

She says nothing.

"You should talk to him."

"He should stop being a jerk." It comes out fractured, quiet.

"We all have our own ways of coping. Tony's may be particularly abrasive, but it's the best he can do."

Her fingers are brushing his knuckles. Distantly he feels something close to an ache, the ghost of pain.

"He was not pleasant to be around after Paula. Or Caitlyn."

"It's not what he says. He shouldn't be angry in the first place. He thinks they're going to die."

"Abby—"

"Don't say anything, Ducky." She's fighting to get the words out, they're half drowned. "Don't, don't agree with them. I can't if you, if…"

The words dissolve. She sobs, the sounds echo dully.  
He wants to hug her. It's a need, and worse than pain.

He cannot move to comfort her.

The sounds muffle, he hears Ducky talking softly. Even softly, he sounds like he can barely speak himself.

Tim understands then, how trapped he is. How, very, very sick.

He is afraid.

* * *

Quiet. He is alone again.

He dreams_._

_Computer on his lap. He can see Tony and Ziva, far away. He feels like he is in a cavern, but he is above ground. There's the smell of copper._

_He does not feel afraid._

_But then, it's never the dangerous ones, that get you. Or at least, rarely._

_Death hides in the mundane._

_He remembers it was a surprise. Whatever this was. _

_No one saw it coming._

That's how it gets you, you know.

…_What?..._

_The voice fades.  
_

* * *

"He's looking better. More like Tim."

"Less like squashed apricot."

"Tony!"

"Sorry."

"…Have you seen Ziva yet?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"She's doped up. There's no point."

"She doesn't need to know that you're there. You just need to… be there."

He says nothing.

Tim wants to shake his head. Tony is not quiet. Tony is only quiet when he is very, very upset.

Abby knows. Her free hand leaves his side, ghosts across him; grips Tony's hand on the other.

He feels more awake then he ever has. Feels something like pain, sometimes like an itch. He remembers more.

Every little thing is like clawing from a well. Each fingerhold is tenuous on the slippery stones.

Abby's hand is gripping Tony's, which rests near his shoulder.

Tony's hand is shaking.

"Every time I look at her I remember."

It feels cold in the room. There's something like a shiver across his skin. He can hear Tony's breath catching as he talks.

He listens.

"I thought you didn't remember."

"Ever since she…it's coming back. It's all muddled. I can't think it out right. But then I'll see it clearly, and it's worse than being there because all I can do is watch."

…

"You remember Keaton?"

_Long fingered hands, small with eyes that blink far too much._

They were after him for smuggling stolen weapons. Arms dealer.

"Yeah. You went to his house. You and Metro."

"Yeah. I remember. They were outside securing. There was a guy who looked like Stallone in Kojak."

Tim remembers Tony pointing him out.

He feels uneasy.

"There's a safe. One of those hardcore industrial ones."

_He remembers. He's running. Shouting. _

Abby's hand tightens around his.

" Ziva's trying to open it. Then McGee comes out of nowhere, then there's just heat, and…"

_Feels like he's going to burst._

He can't breathe.

_He's standing at the door, and he remembers the moment of silence when he sees Ziva trying to open the door, Tony right there beside her._

_He sees her turn._

_Ziva's got lock picks in the door of the safe. It's as big as he is. _

_Without think he moves. Towards them._

_She turns._

_Her lips move._

_He hits her, pushed her away and the word reaches his ears for a smallest of fractions._

"_Don't—"_

_Then the world ignites._

"You know what woke me up?"

"What." Abby's voice sounds too calm.

"I didn't get what it was at first. There was blood in my ear. Everything sounded funny. The smell…"

"One of the worse moment's of my life when I realised."

_No_.

"It was Ziva."

_Tim hears it._

_He thought it was his, somehow. His face is crumpled in like a car bender, he's snapped in half with bones splintered. His agony must be somehow voicing itself._

_No._

_It comes from beneath him. Where he can smell burning._

_By the worst luck, when he fell he fell on her. He was heavier. She was hurt. Couldn't move from under him. _

_Couldn't move away from the fire._

_And he realises, and feels sick. _

_Maybe they already knew. Figured it out, and him running and hitting them had just broken it. _

_He wants to escape into unconsciousness. Be nothing, feel nothing._

_But he is here, he is powerless. He screams inside his head._

The monitors don't even blip.

* * *

For a long time after, it is quiet. He hears nurses, faintly. They talk to him without expecting an answer.

He crawls away from awareness, buries himself in the nothing.

May as well at coward to the list of his crimes.

* * *

Would the others blame him?

Abby, no. Ducky? Probably not.

Tony… perhaps. Probably closer to yes. If he knew.

Would Ziva blame him?

He honestly doesn't know.

Would Gibbs?

…

* * *

He dreams, flashes of colour and light. Voices from the outside drift in, and he pushes them away.

Sometimes there are faces. Old, new, half remembered.

She appears to him ever now and then, and sometimes he speaks to her.

_

* * *

_

_I wish I hadn't done it. _

Done what?

_I ran in. It was a bomb. I tried to push them out of the way of a bomb. Stupid. Idiot. Idiot. She knew, she already knew. I set it off. I nearly killed us. I nearly killed her. I think I've killed me._

You don't know that.

_I feel it. I just know._

You can't just know.

_But it must be._

I don't understand.

_I'm here. I'm alive, I'm coherent. I can hear them out there, but I can't reach. I think…_

Tim, don't think that.

_I think this might be my punishment. _

A sound like a sigh, rushing through his head.

This isn't your punishment, Tim.

_I haven't gotten to the worse part._

Oh, there's worse?

_I wish I hadn't run after them. That... that I was alright._

_I think that makes me a bad person. _

Everyone wishes that.

_Do you wish that?_

Sometimes.

_Only sometimes?_

It'll be alright, Tim.

_Wish you hadn't taken that bullet for Gibbs?_

No. Wish I hadn't stood up, and it hit Tony instead.

_Oh._

Doesn't matter what I wish. Can't change it. We can't be perfect, either. Do as much as you can. We won't expect anymore.

_I do._

There is a sound like laughter, but more gentle.

That's what makes you good, Tim.

Then there is a feeling of nothingness, and he is alone.

* * *

Time passes.

He pushes the thoughts away, everything. Hides in the spaces between things.

Time passes, and he does not change.

Try as he might though, he can't block out the voices that echo to him across the void. Sarah, Ducky, Abby. Tony, not as much. Palmer even, though what he said didn't make much sense.

No Gibbs.

* * *

You can't go on like this.

_Why?_

Because it's not your fault. And you're hurting yourself.

_True. He felt that something like pain in his chest, and it wasn't going away._

_But the thought of venturing out was always bared by the smell of burning skin and that awful noise, and he can't move for the sound._

_So he does nothing.  
_

* * *

"He was getting better."

"Maybe it was the stuff they gave him."

"No, even after that. I don't….they must be doing it wrong."

"Ducky says they're doing everything right. It's on Probie now."

There is a jolt, somewhere, deep under his skin.

His breath catches, and he suddenly knows.

* * *

_A sigh in his head._

I did warn you.

* * *

He is not a fighter.

He would like to be. Grab unconsciousness in a headlock or whatever.

The truth is, it's not like that. There's no control at all. The mind is helpless against the body.

When it decides to break, there's not much the mind can do except brace itself and pray.

"Did you see that?"

"What?"

"He twitched—"

A tightness in his chest. A fist squeezes, and he hears sirens that fade under the whine in his ear.

"Help! We need help!"

"Come on Probie, don't—"

The sound of screaming, but it's deep inside his ear and boiling. Breath leaves his lungs and everything wrenches.

The outside noises fall away.

* * *

It's more like falling.

Not silent. A whipping noise, like a guttering candle. Light falling to a pinprick a billion miles away.

A slam like hitting concrete.

And then the void.

* * *

"_Half-past three,_

_The lamp sputtered,_

_The lamp muttered in the dark…"_

…

"Tim…"

* * *

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

* * *

"McGee?"

…

…

"Oh man."

* * *

He coalesces, forms slowly.

The bits of himself he clawed back are gone, and he is left floating in shadows.

* * *

A hand in his. The rings are warm where they touch his skin.

_Been holding a long time._

Silence.

He feels scared, lost. He wants to clench his fingers, but there is nothing. Nothing going on forever in his head.

_Abby. Abby!_

Seemed the void was listening to his idea of punishment.

_Please._

He's not sure who he is talking to.

Just him inside his head.

She rises, presses a kiss against his forehead.

Her cheeks are wet. They left damp patches on his skin.

"Don't do that again, Tim."

_I won't._

He wants to say it to her whisper. But it floats out into the vacuum and is whipped away.

* * *

_It's been a long time._

_He can hear it in their voices, when they talk. They don't expect him to wake._

_He calls to them. Tries his muscles, one by one. Weeps inside his head, but his eyes don't listen._

_They come, they go, and he just lies there._

_This is his punishment, and there's no-one to blame but __him_.

* * *

"Are all the poems in here depressing? Kubla Khan is at least stimulating. But seriously, William Blake?"

_You're reading them wrong._

"Maybe some Robert Graves."

_Grave. Huh. Amusing._

He doesn't feel like laughing.

* * *

There's a creaking noise. Softer, slow slicing noises, like rollerblades. Uneven.

It falls quiet, and maybe he can hear breathing. Maybe not.

Perhaps more imagination, though just when he's decided it's one of those noises echoing out of his head, he hears it again as it fades away.

* * *

"I've worked out what I would have done."

Tony. Again. He has surgery a lot, pulling metal bits out of him. Someone said it was nearly fifty by now. Keaton liked nails in his explosions.

Tony got nailed in the full sense of the word.

_You sound better, Tony. Still not quite there, though._

"I would have swapped places. Easy!"

_What?_

"See if it was me, there wouldn't have been nearly so much traffic in this room. True, some hot nurses, really hot babes… but then, a lot of them wouldn't be able to bare to see me in such a state and would have left gifts lying around. Nice ones. Not like this stuff. Flowers, Probie? Seriously? Were you that crap a date?"

_You can't get a rise out of me when I'm unconscious, Tony._

"And you would be here, and you're much better at this crap than I am. Sometimes, anyway. Though the conversation admittedly would be slightly less interesting."

_I'll bet. _

He finds the smallest of comforts, when he answers back. Sometimes it's like they hear.

"Abby finally managed to piece together that laptop."

His voice drops. "You saw the note he left, didn't you? You would have to go be stupidly heroic. I thought I'd knocked that out of you. Now it's all ruined, and I'm really not built for this kind of thing."

_Note…_

The cause of it. Everything.

They found the laptop. He opened it while they searched the rest of the house.

It was the only document on the entire desktop.

_Look in the safe._

Too late to do anything but get in the way.

Tony drifts away from the safe idea. He seems to find it hard to keep on track lately.

"Every time I go see Ziva I can't get the idea of burnt bacon out of my head. That makes me pathological on so many different levels, right?"

The urge to talk has died away.

He just wants to sleep.

"She still hasn't come and seen you yet, you know. Abby's been at her for the last four days now. You wouldn't have thought Ziva would turn chicken at someone unconscious. It's not like you can shame her or anything."

_Shame?... _

_Why is she scared?_

Angry. Blaming.

Not afraid.

Scared to see him because of what he did?

No, that made no sense. He was an idiot, yes, but not an object of fear.

Contempt, maybe.

Tony's talk peters out at last. For a long while he just sits.

Before he leaves, he says something. Softly, even Tim nearly misses it.

"Now we're just waiting on you, Probie. Don't let this be the one time you let us down."

* * *

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

* * *

_The walls are stone. He sees the river between the cracks._

_Two of them, hunkered down by the metal box. A smaller figure runs towards them, but never reaches._

_Sometimes it does; it sets the other two alight. _

* * *

_I feel cold._

I know.

* * *

Creaking. It comes to rest beside his bed.

There's an odd smell in the air. That, and the sense of being watched.

He feels roughness against his skin. It's wound around a fat paw, fingertips cold when they touch his hand.

Quiet. Whoever it is seems content to leave it like that, and he isn't in a mood to argue.

After a long time, he hears something.

Hissing. Sharp, pained. Words straining themselves through burnt vocal cords.

It takes him a while to understand. When he does there is an ache inside his chest.

"Ms David?"

The hand tightens slightly.

"We need to change your dressings now."

The voice seems to expect something.

The fingers remove themselves from his limp hand, rest on his fist for a moment.

Then the beat of wheels, and he is alone again.

* * *

What are you waiting for?

_I wasn't aware I was waiting for anything._

Then why are you still here?

_What if she blames me?_

You won't know if you stay here.

_She shouldn't be thanking me._

But she did.

_It's not right. It's stupid._

Oh sure, go tell her that.

_I nearly killed her. My idiocy. _

Did you ever wonder why you lived?

_What?_

Did you?

_No._

You should.

_But—_

You should listen more. They'll tell you.

_I don't understand. _

…

_Kate?..._

* * *

He knew this one.

_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,_

_And sorry I could not travel both _

_And be one traveler, long I stood _

_And looked down one as far as I could _

_To where it bent in the undergrowth;  _

Sarah's voice was measured, soft. By now she knew the rhythm of poetry reading.

_Then took the other, as just as fair, _

_And having perhaps the better claim,_

_Because it was grassy and wanted wear; _

_Though as for that the passing there _

_Had worn them really about the same,  _

He said it along in his head, softly.

_And both that morning equally lay_

_In leaves no step had trodden black._

_Oh, I kept the first for another day! _

_Yet knowing how way leads on to way, _

_I doubted if I should ever come back.  _

_I shall be telling this with a sigh_

_Somewhere ages and ages hence: _

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—_

 _I took the one less traveled by, _

_And that has made all the difference._

....

"That's not like the one you were reading before."

The voice comes from near the door.

"No. He keeps getting worse. I think it's was the classics. I thought maybe I should keep to modernists."

Quiet.

"Don't start blaming yourself."

She says nothing. Gibbs comes to stand beside her.

"Once you start, you can't stop. There will always be a reason, somehow. This isn't your fault."

"I don't blame myself."

There's the sound of a chair being dragged up. Gibbs settles himself.

"We all do. We can't help it. We should have been there. Should have called more. Talked more. Told him how much he meant to you. Because Tim knows, and he would never blame you."

She says nothing.

"You should get some sleep."

"I can't sleep."

"Go lie down, then."

Gibbs hovers for a moment, then walks away.

* * *

_He feels like he's reached a point where he has to make a choice._

_It feels harder, somehow, to stay him. Stay awake, aware._

_He could relax, sink under._

_Or fight every step. Claw his way back slowly._

* * *

In his head, there is silence.

He is not afraid.

* * *

Quiet.

Not silence. Quiet is another state. Transience, waiting noises. From one point to another is quiet. Silence is doldrums, dead in the water.

There's a droning in the air.

He feels heavy. Roughness scrapes his skin, pulls at his shoulders. He breathes in, feels it move away. Sparks of pain dance across his chest.

And just like that, his eyes open.

Things are in blocks of grey and blue, inked together. He assesses it, then blinks once or twice.

Still blurred, but better.

He feels movement.

A hand reaches over, touches his shoulder.

He blinks, bleary.

There's a face there, but it's blurred. Just dark spots for the eyes, nose and mouth.

He blinks again, shudders.

"Tim."

Ziva. There's bandages across the right side of her face, and metal inside her mouth.

But she is smiling.

The noises he makes are barely croaks.

A nurse comes in. "Someone paged?"

Ziva moves to the side, and Tim see's the nurses eyes widen.

"Oh…"

It happens fast, after that. More nurses, then Doctor Carter appears. Ziva slides back on her wheelchair, slips outside.

Lights shine in his eyes, making them water.

"Well, this is certainly a surprise, Agent McGee." Doctor Carter says.

He hears voices, outside. Ziva talking.

"He's awake."

* * *

It takes a couple of days for him to come to a stage where he doesn't think he'll fall away again.

For a while it's almost too much to bear.

Slight confusion between left and right. Memory problems, though milder than they could have been.

As Tony said, problems that could be worked around.

Tony had shrapnel embeded in the his right side, arm still in a case and burns across his chest. Ziva's hair was growing back slowly, her jaw was unwired and could talk enough to tell McGee she didn't blame him at all for what he did.

They all came. Abby was tearful and told the rest of them that if anyone else even thought about going into a coma she'd kill them herself. Ducky was smiling. Vance even came, and told McGee he had about nine months of untaken leave so he was free to take his time.

But a lot of the time it was sleep. He didn't think he could bear to at fist, but he seemed to need it.

Dreamless sleep, and wordless. He wasn't sure which parts of before were dreams.

He woke, and felt again that sense of relief.

He tried to sit up, but the necessary limbs weren't quiet ready yet. He contented with shifting slightly, enjoying feeling, even if it was his ribs creaking.

Still in pain, but better.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

That sound.

Turning his head, he focused on the offending watch. Then his eyes focused, take in the bigger form.

Gibbs smiled at him. "Glad to see you could make it, McGee."

"Boss." Still faintly frog-like. He swallowed, tried to sit up.

"Don't move. I'm pretty sure you still got a couple of plates and pins or whatever they are in your pelvis."

"I know. Three plates, twenty pins. They took out the external fixator about a week ago."

Gibbs's raised and eyebrow.

"I heard things, sometimes. When I was out."

"Were you awake?"

"More like aware."

"Whenever I'm in a coma I just seem to dream a lot. You have one up on me."

His voice was wry. Tim smiled. "At least yours were short." He shifted slightly, winced as pain shot up his right leg.

Gibbs stood, stretching. "I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear, but there's a time to rest, Tim."

Tim snorted. "I've been resting for…"

"Six weeks, roughly. Abby's been keeping an exact account, if you're interested."

Tim thought about it. Six weeks. Sounded about right. He watched Gibbs put on his jacket, feeling a question rise.

"Have they…has she…"

"Ziva?" Gibbs always could read minds.

"Did she… tell you anything?"

His eyes were, as always, unreadable. "What might she have told me.?"

"That she already knew the bomb was there. That me trying to warn them caused it to go off."

Gibbs said nothing. He seemed to want to think it over. McGee watched.

"Boss…"

"Yeah?"

"Do you blame me?"

"For the bomb?"

"For what happened. To… to us."

"Does my opinion really bother you that much, McGee?"

McGee thought. "I guess it does."

Gibbs sat back down.

"I don't blame you. You did the best that you could with what you were given. You could have done nothing, but the possible outcomes could have been worse."

McGee looked down. He could feel an ache in his stomach.

"She doesn't blame you. "

"Did she tell you that?"

"She doesn't have to."

"She already knew about the bomb, didn't she."

"She doesn't remember. Nothing about the day it happened. For a couple of days beforehand, as well."

"Tony?"

"Concussion. What he remembers isn't worth a lot. There's penguins in one bit, apparently."

"Then there's no way of knowing."

"No."

McGee looked at his hands. Watched them clench, unclench. Power to relish, but the thrill was fading compared to this never knowing.

Gibbs looked him over, then put a hand on his shoulder.

"Maybe one day Ziva or Tony will remember, and you might have to live with whatever consequences that might bring. That'll be okay. But then, maybe they won't; you have to live with that too."

Tim looked up. "I think I would rather live with knowing."

"You might just have to settle with living."

A nurse came in, and Gibbs stepped away.

"Thanks, Gibbs."

"Night, McGee."

"Night, Boss."

* * *

Tim found, later, that it was hard to get to sleep. It probably would be, for a time.

But then, maybe it would get easier.


End file.
